


And For the Tiniest Moment It's All Not True

by mostlikelydefinentlymad



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Hurt John Watson, Light Angst, M/M, POV John Watson, POV Sherlock Holmes, Post-The Reichenbach Fall, Sherlock Holmes and Feelings, TJLC | The Johnlock Conspiracy
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-04-28
Updated: 2015-04-28
Packaged: 2018-03-26 03:56:38
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Major Character Death, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,459
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3836134
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mostlikelydefinentlymad/pseuds/mostlikelydefinentlymad
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Its been two weeks since Sherlock Holmes was laid to rest and John is finally ready to return<br/>to his stone. Sherlock watches from afar and feels his heart breaking. He longs to go to him,<br/>to beg for forgiveness and explain every agonizing detail but he knows he can't. He feels like<br/>John is a million miles away. </p><p>Title inspired by "You Could Be Happy" by Snowpatrol</p>
            </blockquote>





	And For the Tiniest Moment It's All Not True

St Woolas Cemetery  
burial will be held at 4pm  
the family requests flowers & donations  
made in the name of William Sherlock Scott Holmes to  
London Science Museum  
Exhibition Road, London SW7 2DD, United Kingdom  
  
_Yellow roses, white babys breath, purple posies, pale pink tulips_  
They all seem to have already faded with the passage of time. Two weeks ago John had gathered with Mrs. Hudson, Greg Lestrade, Molly Hooper and a handful of mourners and laid to rest the world's only consulting detective. Mycroft had allowed him to choose the coffin, he said it was only right and John didn't understand what he meant but he made his way to the funeral parlor anyway. He'd chosen a beautiful black cherry coffin with brass handles and light blue silk lining the insides. It reminded him of home, of warm nights spent in front of the fire while Sherlock drifted into his mind palace. Some nights he'd sworn he caught him staring, out the corner of his eye but that was just wishful thinking. None of that mattered now.

  
_I'm sorry it took me awhile to stop by. I just_...he broke off mid sentence and tried to swallow past the lump in his throat. He felt ridiculous, talking to a stone as if Sherlock could actually hear him. If he were there, really there, he'd laugh, John thinks to himself. He'd point out how painfully illogical it was to actually speak to a slab of polished black stone. After all, as he'd told clients once, the dead can't hear you. They can't hold your hand or discuss the news over tea and biscuits nor would they ever again. The thought made John's stomach sink, he couldn't fathom never seeing those dark curls and mischievous eyes ever again.

Clearing his throat, he began again in one big breath.

  
_I'm sorry. Um...I brought you some flowers. Violet tulips, I get the feeling you'd like them. I honestly don't know why. We never really discussed flowers, never had the need to. Life is funny like that. I...I spoke to Mycroft today. Not that you care but he wanted to check in on me. We don't talk a whole lot and when we do it's trivial. The weather, politics, upcoming elections. Never you though which is just as well because I don't think I'd like to. It makes it all too real. I um..I moved out of our flat. Last week. I got a good deal on a tiny flat not too far away. It's not 221B but it'll do_ , he stopped to take a deep breath and tried not to stumble on his words. He wasn't good at this, never had been. He only suceeded in silent sobs. Scrubbing his hand over his face, he gathered himself together and continued on.

  
_Just...can you come back please? I need you to come back. Mrs. Hudson needs you to come back, she rings me up at least once a week asking if I'd like to drop by for tea or a fry up. I'm running out of ways to say 'I'm sorry I can't do this'. So if you could...just for me. Stop this. Stop all of this._

  
With that, he reached out a trembling hand and lightly brushed his fingers along the stone and traced the shape of Sherlock's name. They'd chosen to only include his first and last name as well as the usual date of birth and...death as he felt like that's what Sherlock would've wanted. The stone was frigid in the cool Spring air, how appropriate, he thought to himself. Cold and solid; how Sherlock had appeared to those who weren't close to him, those who didn't share a flat with him and the barrage of thumbs, toes and various other mutilated body parts that shared the fridge with cartons of milk, lettuce and expired containers of yogurt.

  
_I..um..I hope you like the plot. Mycroft said you liked trees as a child and that you'd climb to the tip top while sporting an eye patch, that it cost you a broken arm once and a fractured knee another time. He said you wanted to be a pirate when you grew up, that you'd make it your mission to save innocent victims from scheming villains, that you'd be the vigilante pirate; the only one in the world_ , he said, chuckling to himself at the visual. He imagined Sherlock must have been quite a handful as a child. Mummy Holmes must've had the patience of saints and Mycroft, for that matter.

  
_Anyways we agreed to bury you here, under this tree so you could maybe see the seasons change and deduce the weather and the flight pattern and destination of native birds, I don't know. It seemed like a good decision at the time. I um, I bought a carton of milk today. It sounds trivial but it reminded me of you and I couldn't help myself I laughed because I can pour it into a bowl of cereal without worrying about the latest virus you're testing. I'm sure I looked odd to those around me, standing there holding a carton of 2% chuckling to myself like a mad man. I wish you could've seen the looks on their faces,_ he continued and sat down on the moist ground. 

  
_One more thing and I have to go because it's looking like it might rain and it's not fun catching a cab in the pouring rain. Greg said to tell you about Anderson's latest venture. He couldn't make it as he's tied up with a case but he thought you'd like to hear about it. They'd been investigating what, by all appearances, appeared to be a double homicide at a local fair and both were completely stumped. Anderson, donning blue scrubs and gloves, went to take the pulse of the female victim only to find she was still alive and wasn't injured at all. He nearly jumped out of his skin, you'd think these things wouldn't shock him by now but apparently they still do. There had been a mix up with the crime scene, a wrong address and the two 'victims' were merely college students passed out from too much alcohol and covered in bright red vomit on both of them, strawberry wine coolers. You would've loved seeing him like that, I know you would've_ , he said and stood up to stretch his legs.

  
He'd stayed longer than he'd intended and raindrops were falling on his head. He took this as a sign that it was actually time to go. A part of him wanted to stay there and talk, like old times. Another part of him knew if he stayed any longer it would only hurt more when he had to walk away.

With a final tap to the stone he made his way to the curb, to call a taxi.

As he waited, he closed his eyes and tilted his head back to allow the cold raindrops to slide down his face and wash away hot tears that pricked his eyes. Leaving was the hardest part and it was exactly why he'd waited two weeks to visit. By the time the taxi pulled away to take him home, he was soaked to the bone but he didn't care. He welcomed the numbness, the aching of his heart. _This was his new normal._

  
Stepping out of the shadows slightly, Sherlock watched the taxi drive away. He furrowed his brow and tried desperately to bury the ache in his own chest. He'd hated leaving John behind but he'd rather leave him here than be forced to lay him to rest, never to return. Everything he was doing was for John and he hoped that someday he could come back and make it up to him.

They'd have dinner at Angelo's, by warm candlelight, and he'd explain everything over bread sticks and spaghetti. John would understand and wrap him in a firm hug and wouldn't care who was watching or what assumptions they'd make. They'd return to 221B and surprise Mrs. Hudson but not too much and after apologizing profusely they'd make their way upstairs and he'd allow himself to speak all the words he'd been bottling up for too many years.

They would be happy together but for now, this had to do and he hated it. He hated Jim Moriarty for ever existing and putting them in this situation. He'd sworn to take down every hired hand he came across, he'd make him pay. He pulled his scarf tighter and caught his own cab, time to make his way to the airport and hope that he wouldn't be recognized. _Time to be Sherlock Holmes._

**Author's Note:**

> so sorry for the angst, I really am but that scene kills me. for additional angst, listen to "You Could Be Happy" by Snowpatrol. thank you for reading. xoxo


End file.
